Growing up I went to Springdale Christian Reformed Church and one of the outreaches was that once a month different groups would take turns going to Bradford Villa: an old folks home in town that reeked of urine and housed 'the forgotten' of society. I remember that we just always went. It was a part of our lives. For 15 or so years I hated it; every time I went I hated it. But there were no exceptions: my parents were on it. It always started at 2 and rides from the church would leave at 1:30. The key on nursing home Sundays was to hope your siblings would (or bribe them to) forget that your church group was going that week. That was almost as key as hoping your parents would forget. Ideally there'd be company that day and mom and dad would get distracted. You'd make sure you were 'out of sight, out of mind'. You'd watch the clock but not draw attention to yourself while doing so. But at 1:15 or later dad or mom would tell us to get ready. Crap. They remembered. In my family you could try and beg your way out of it, or make excuses as to why you couldn't go: "Mom, I had a cold on Monday and I probably still have it. I really don't want to make the nice old people sick". But my siblings were ALL over making sure my ploy didn't work! Sometimes my brothers would empty and load the dishwasher at 1:25 hoping the good deed would be rewarded with skipping singing at the old folks home. It never worked: my parents were die hards. One week I was almost in the clear. Mom and dad were reading in the living room and siblings must have been occupied: 1:30, 35, 40, 45...I'm in the clear! I clearly missed the rides at church! "Rachael, we gotta go" and my dad drove me straight to the home.
When I was younger this home smelled, was hot and had dark, narrow hallways. You'd walk up the stairs and try not to look. Then you'd walk through the hallway with doors close to you on either side. You chose to either look ahead at the room of pain (where we'd sing) or if you were really gutsy you'd steal quick glances past the doors into the rooms to see the members of some misfit tribe as they lay on their bed or shuffle towards the room.
Thelma was a regular. She looked like my grandma but half the size, at best. She always had "grandma" slippers on (you know, the knitted ones). Thelma was in a wheelchair and she drooled. A lot. But she loved to sing, loved the church services we did and loved us, especially when there were little kids. When I started bringing my vibrant, outgoing, lovely brother Brady with me when he was a child, he made Thelma beam! In hindsight she was warm and lovely, not freakish as I thought. She just drooled.
Then there was the blue jays man. He always wore a jays cap and loved the team. He knew their scores and stats and just loved them, well, he loved all things sports really.
Joe: he was only 41 when he first got to the home. He seemed so out of place. He was with it, intelligent, knew about the world, knew all the lyrics to all the songs, sang well and loud and remembered my name when seeing me six months later. He just had a weak leg and was wheelchair bound. Even as a teenager I couldn't help but think that this place would make him digress mentally. I liked Joe at first until he got fresh. He started making passes at the ladies and soon was not allowed to come to the church services.
And then there was Grace. Grace was a little lady with a huge humpback, almost big enough that the hump went higher than her head. As a kid I remember watching her sit was awkward because the back of the chair on her back made her lean forward more so she couldn't see straight ahead, more downwards instead. For years Grace was the one I had to consciously stop myself from staring at. But I loved her. She also loved Brady and my other little siblings when I'd bring them, especially my beautiful sister Lauren. Grace loved to stand and sing. She always had her grey hair in a high ponytail with a braid and a bow; her short braid would sway as she sang, especially when we sang the song she requested every time: "He's Got The Whole World In His Hands". She made a big world with her arms and she rocked that tiny little baby, perpetually smiling. I loved Grace.
One day the reality of life and death set in. I showed up one Sunday afternoon and Bradford Place was Grace-less.
As a child I trusted my parents but felt like they were sending me into the Rocky Horror Picture Show (not that I knew what that was as I was not allowed to watch that) when we'd sing at the old folks home. By my late teens I was mature enough to be able to step back and put myself in the shoes of Thelma, Jays man, Joe and Grace, among others. I was able to realize they were people. Different, but people nonetheless.
Then the TDCH service trips happen. On these Toronto service trips I have had the privilege of interacting with low income and homeless folks. Despite haggard appearances and less than ideal smells, I am continually reminded that they are people. Different, but people nonetheless.
Then the International Block trips happen. On these Dominican Republic trips I have had the privilege of volunteering at an orphanage for severely mentally and physically disabled children. Most are bedridden, completely immobile. They need to be fed and changed; their lives consist of staring at a ceiling. Often their limbs only move if there is an outside force. The first few times I went I was shocked and then angry that such life exists. Then I stopped myself from asking 'why?', which represents the past, and moved to the 'what now?' which represents the present. I learned to love on these people. I can see past the diapers, drool (no one drools as well as Thelma anyways), dirty teeth, mangled limbs and silent speech. I try to stop looking at what they don't have and focus on what I am able to give: eye contact, touch, presence, words and time. Being at the orphanage continually reminds me that these children are people. Different, but people nonetheless.
At the Prem Dan home at (a home with Mother Teresa's charity) there are Thelmas, Graces, Toronto shelter folks and, most of all, Dominican orphanage folks. There are ladies who sit, stare and drool. Ladies who are verbal and mobile. Ladies who rock. Some are bedridden with limbs that can't extend, exactly like the orphanage kids (the major difference being these ladies had many more years under their belts). There is a 'Grace' here with a huge humpback, but this 'Grace' is decades younger. Some ladies need to be brought to the bathroom, hoisted into toilets and beds, walked to the garden, fed their meals. Some ladies have hands that shouldn't be in the positions they are. There is blindness, deafness and inner voices. This house is a compilation of many of my experiences. I see connections. This is India but it is also Bradford, Toronto and Santiago in the Dominican Republic.
There are many similarities, it is more similar than not. But there are two major differences: ladies with leprosy and victims of acid attacks.
Back to the essential question: why are the Mother Teresa homes so special? They provide the same care that many facilities worldwide provide. To me, these homes are not that special. They are important and good, but not special. They are beacons of hope, but they aren't unique. They are special because to the world this atmosphere is shocking. The world is often blissfully unaware of how our worldmates live.
India has made me realize I was never able to live with that opportunity: to be unaware of how others in my community lived. I saw these Indian ladies at the local nursing home. Then I saw these Indian ladies on the streets of Toronto and then I saw these Indian ladies in beds in the Dominican Republic.
Mother Teresa's is special because she made it okay to love such people; she made it okay to love these worldmates who appear so different. She made it okay to touch and love on people as Christ would have had been on this earth at this time.
This place is no more special than other places in what it does. It is more special because it found itself in the media. It has become known. It is out there. It is a public place. It is frustrating for all the folks in the world who do this work without the publicity and money, but Kolkata has closed the gap between extreme realities. Kolkata has put despair and need in the world's face; as a result the unacceptable and condemned are now sought after for personal peace and healing.
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